PQ Monthly August 2017

White Liberal Violence - p.5

Being progressive doesn’t make you less racist.

Colonized Bodies - p.6

Pain is beauty, and beauty is privilege.

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Melanin of Portland - p.12 Bask in the radiance of PDX’s people of color!

Cover art by: Maya Vivas.

The Melanin Edition

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AUGUST/SEPTEMBER 2017

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AUGUST/SEPTEMBER 2017 2 • JANUARY/FEBRUARY

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EDITORIAL

From the Editor

Maya Vivas

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Ryn McCoy

Editor in Chief editor@pqmonthly.com

Monty Herron Op Ed Writer

Shaley Howard Regular Contributor

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Columnists & Contributors

This summer, Proud Queer Monthly experienced firsthand the struggles of being a team of queer people of color working in media. It felt like an extensive metaphor for what we were trying to accomplish—like the universe itself was reminding us that centering and celebrating people of color is never something that is achieved without a fight. This month, Charlottesville reminded us all, yet again, that the depth of hatred runs deep in this country, and a frightening percentage of it is directed at people of color. It is horrors like the violence in Charlottesville that also remind us just how important it is to make intentional space for people of color, when so much of this country would prefer us to disappear altogether. The Melanin Edition is made up entirely of the words and images of people of color. It is an act of resistance.

Many writers who have never contributed to PQ before—or even read PQ before— expressed enthusiastic interest in being a part of this project, and I am honored to share their brave and powerful words in The Melanin Edition. Dakky Comics contrasts Portland’s oh-so-progressive image with the realities of living in it as a queer person of color (page 10); and Joseph Jordan Johnson addresses the subtle violence that white liberals enact upon black people (page 5). Anna Zheng discusses the consumption of womxn of color by those who care about race in theory but are self-serving in practice (page 7); while Lani Felicitas explores the intersection of colorism, gender, and poverty in Asian-American communities (page 6).

Understandably, there is a lot of hurt and anger in these pages—it is difficult to exist in this world as a person of color, and Portland provides its own unique brand of struggles—but this edition is also full of joy, love and gratitude. I was repeatedly moved to tears while interviewing folks for the “Melanin of Portland” photoshoot (page 12), as they spoke of unlearning a hatred of their own skin—reclaiming and decolonizing their bodies through radical self-love and community-building. Cambria Herrera celebrates the intersectional queer Latinx community here in Portland (page 4), and shares personal tips for self-love and healing (page 11); and Luis Silva highlights the creativity and perseverance of local artist Cynthia Gerriets in an interview about her work designing and making toys (page 17).

Throughout the process of creating this edition, I found myself humbled again and again as I witnessed the fierce pride that people of color take in those aspects of ourselves that mark us as outsiders in this racially homogenous city. We have a lot to cherish and celebrate, and a lot to fight for; and I am honored to do that alongside this community.

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On the cover: “The Instability of Injustice”. Original art work by Maya Vivas.

WHAT YOU’LL FIND INSIDE:

PDX Latinx Pride........................................ Page 4 Pacifying the Black Body ........................... Page 5 Already Light-Skinned................................ Page 6

Resistance in the Western Gaze.............................. Page 7 Queer and Swarthy in Portland............................... Page 10 Melanin of Portland............................................... Page 12 AND MORE! AUGUST/SEPTEMBER 2017 • 3 JANUARY/FEBRUARY

VOICES

PDX Latinx Pride

An Intersectional Family

By Cambria Herrera

Content warning: mass shooting, hate crime

On June 12, 2016 I was at a nightclub in downtown Portland with a group of friends.

I distinctly remember when the club closed at 2:00 AM, we walked out to the chaos of drunk, happy people looking for parked cars and Ubers. Some discussed where to go next, others continued dancing in the streets. Only a few hours later I found out the terror that was occurring on the opposite side of the country at Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, Florida at that same time. I vividly imagined watching the people I was with that night experiencing the terror of a mass shooting, and as the day went on I felt so alone. The world seemed to keep spinning but the world I saw was crumbling. That could have been me. There were 49 of them. Each of them had a community with broken hearts. I craved to know, “Who is mourning this with me? What is being done to stop this hate?”

Fast forward to November 2016, when the man who had promised a world of borders and walls was elected by the majority of the U.S. as leader of the nation. I was left wondering the same questions again. Fast forward to a rainy day in March 2017, when I found a hint of an answer at a PDX Latinx Pride planning committee meeting. I walked into a room and witnessed intersectionality at work.

Intersectionality is a word I’ve heard thrown around a lot recently. For years, I admittedly didn’t exactly know what it meant but I knew I was here for it. In April 2017, the Merriam-Webster Dictionary website added intersectionality to their list of “Words We’re Watching.” As Merriam-Webster can best describe the word now, “It’s used to refer to the complex and cumulative way that the effects of different forms of discrimination (such as racism, sexism, and classism) combine, overlap, and yes, intersect—especially in the experiences of marginalized people or groups.” My inclinations were correct. I did know in theory what this word meant, but I’m a womxn of action, not a womxn of theory. It was only when I became a member of PDX Latinx Pride’s planning committee that I genuinely understood intersectionality, because I experienced it. What had once been merely a word of academia was now a noun and a verb; a person, place, thing, and action all in one.

On that rainy day in March, I entered a conversation on how an event specifically dedicated to LGBTQ Latinx folx could be inclusive of all ages and identities that represent this diverse community. Special acknowledgement was given to the challenges that would keep youth, the most vulnerable of our community, from attending an event.

Multiple perspectives were represented in the room: queer, gay, lesbian, bisexual, young, old, Costa Rican, Mexican, Puerto Rican, and Venezuelan. In the following months, the people in that room became family. Some have mentored and cared for me while others have danced and laughed with me. We all volunteer our time and leadership abilities to make resources and events available to our community, but we also make time to be there for each other.

As current committee member Samuel Isaias states it, “PDX Latinx Pride has been a source of community at a time when solitude can go deeply. I have been fascinated by the ease of familiarity the community has shown toward one another. I believe that the group does a great amount of healing for a community that is known by many, but often not acknowledged or celebrated.” This healing has been taking place since 2006 when a group of friends with vision and heart partnered with El Hispanic News and Jupiter Hotel to organize the first festival, then called Portland Latino Gay Pride Festival.

In 2016, the decision was made to officially change the name to PDX Latinx Pride in an effort to be more inclusive. Former committee member, Marlon Jimenez Oviedo shares his experience at the first festival after the name change: “Last year’s PDX Latinx Pride Festival was the first time I ever attended any Pride—I had never had the courage or self-love to seek that kind of community. I was so full of orgullo and love afterwards.”

This year the festival theme was “Building Bridges Not Walls.” I will remember this theme for a long time, a testament to the year when I found family and intersectionality, when I thought I would only find walls.

For more information on the history and upcoming events of the organization visit PDXLatinxPride.org.

AUGUST/SEPTEMBER 2017 4 • JANUARY/FEBRUARY

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VOICES

Pacifying the Black Body

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LOCAL

By Joseph Jordan Johnson

Content warning: racial slurs.

I moved to Oak Park from Hammond, Indiana (by way of Chicago) in the summer of 2003, where my single mother and I resided on the second floor of an apartment on Austin Boulevard—the border between the Austin neighborhood of Chicago and Oak Park. As of 2010, 67.7% of its citizens were White, compared to 21.7% Black, and the disparity is unavoidable.

Oak Park rests on its laurels for being an incredibly diverse and accepting village, one where people of all races can thrive together.

Which, for white northern progressives, isn’t a particularly unique or radical statement anymore. It is, however, a lie.

I was pretty young at the time, so I wasn’t able to give the scathing critique of its reliance on white neoliberalism I can today, but the disconnect between message and action was still clear to me. Throughout elementary school, there were subtle processes at work that showed me how valuable and how dispensable my body, mind, and labor were to white peers and faculty.

Many times over, I could be found in the principal’s office after getting in fights with other kids, white and black, over things big and small. The first two years or so, the fights I was getting into were with white students over sly racist comments and violations of physical boundaries I had set. Like nearly every black child can attest to, my mom taught me that if anyone puts their hands on me when I don’t want it, I beat the shit out of them—flat out. Specifically, there was a moment where a white kid, who I considered a friend, called me a nigger during recess simply because I got him out during a game of wall ball. I, rightfully pissed, then pegged him in the face with the racquetball. He bawled.

Of course, this brought on a meeting with the principal (not my first and definitely not the last). Going into it, I thought the conversation would be light. I felt I responded to a grave violence with equal measure, therefore warranting no consequences for me. I was wrong. I remember the irony in how brown the office was for an old white woman.

The table was round, made of faux wood that would strip away and reveal the lighter pulp underneath when I picked at the rubber edge seal. The windowsills, the cabinets, even the carpet were dark brown. These are all of the things I paid attention to while she grilled me on how I needed to learn how to act, that the school had a zero tolerance policy for violence and that she was so disappointed because I used to behave like one of the good ones. I tried standing up to her, but I was shut down.

This wasn’t the first time I had been personally yelled at by a white faculty member, but it was by far the most aggressive and most traumatizing for me. It wouldn’t be the last time I received this speech from a teacher, or some variation of it. She responded to the white student in a far calmer tone; he got off with a warning and I got to spend an afternoon recess with the behavioral health teacher (who, later on, developed a close enough relationship with me that she felt it was okay to tell me about all the “bad black kids” she had a hard time with). The only reason I wasn’t suspended, or worse, was because of the “promise” I showed as a student (and a black mom who made it clear she would pull up to the school at a moment’s notice). I am incredibly lucky, knowing full well that other black students whose contributions carried less worth to white people were suspended and expelled much faster for much less.

From then on, I saw what constituted violence for white people. I bit my tongue more. I was less antagonistic towards my peers. The process was slow, but eventually I endured more abuse without objection, and projected it onto other black students instead. The fights I got into were less with white students and more with black students over things like my “white voice” or being a teacher’s pet, both of which gave me access to spaces that were denied to them. To be clear, being made fun of for the behavior I adopted in order to assimilate is incomparable to the violence that I and other “acceptable” black kids enacted on them.

The function of white neoliberalism on black children is ultimately one that demands total obedience—often by way of pacification or pitting black students against one another. It would be easy to pin the blame on individual white people, but it’s more an issue of whiteness / white supremacy, and the simple fact that political leanings don’t negate white privilege. White liberals’ entire politic rests on a false superiority over the Whites they view as uneducated, uncompassionate, and abjectly racist—when there is no actual difference between them when it comes to the level of harm they inflict on black people—and this makes them far more dangerous to me. Their compassion is not selfless—it is for power; they will look black people in the eye and tell us enduring racial violence is what’s best for us. I, and other “good” black students in my classes were replicating the same anti-black (and classist, ableist, misogynoirist, etc.) messages that white liberals were feeding to us. We were, essentially, doing the job of white supremacy as black children, thinking it was best, and there is not a day that passes when I am not furious and utterly defeated by that.

It is taking time to cope with the years of trauma, unlearn the idea that assimilation is the path to liberation, and come to a healthier version of myself and understanding of my community. I use the present tense because that work is never truly over, and the idea that there will come a day when it is finally over—is a fallacy.

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AUGUST/SEPTEMBER 2017 • 5 JANUARY/FEBRUARY

VOICES HOROSCOPE

Already Light-Skinned

Navigating Non Binary Beauty and Poverty

By Lani Felicitas

Everybody was already in their rooms. It might have been around the time when dinner had passed and no one talked to each other for the rest of the night. I would leave my room. Take a break from scrolling through Tumblr. Walk to the kitchen. Flick the light on. Open the fridge. Grab the lemon juice. Squeeze some onto my right hand, and lather it all over my forearm. I can’t remember when, but at one point, I had googled “natural skin lighteners.” I found myself scrolling through beauty websites and wiki how-to’s, and my google searches always included the word “natural.” I didn’t want any surgery or chemicals that could fuck up my skin. Lemon juice came up the most so that’s what I did.

It wasn’t even an actual lemon, but the lemon juice that came in the two pack giant green tub from Costco. It had an odd smell that you could only detect when you put your nose up to it. It had probably been in our fridge for at least a year. Putting on lemon juice wasn’t a ritual. I did it whenever I remembered to. Maybe once a week, or once every other week. Maybe if I had let it become a ritual I would have to acknowledge to myself that this is what I wanted.

Colorism in Asian-American communities is not just about having light skin, but knowing how to maintain light skin and other non-black features. For women and femmes, it means straight, moisturized hair. It means makeup rather than plain faces. It means smooth skin rather than rough hands. It means knowing exactly which products to use. It means the difference between buying papaya soap and other mainstream beauty products rather than using the lemon juice in your fridge. It means knowing what “natural beauty” is and actually embodying it. Colorism wasn’t just me wanting to become white, but also the secrecy of that desire. I put lemon juice on at night. I did it when everyone was in their rooms and no one was looking. One time, as I was rubbing my arm:

“What are you doing?” My brother walked in. “Nothing.” My eyes didn’t dare meet his so I don’t know what he saw or what he thought of it. I left the kitchen.

Navigating colorism also means navigating gender and beauty. Women and femmes are pressured by the beauty myth: that you have to be beautiful in order for your success to be validated. Thirteen-year-old non-binary me internalized this, and rejected everything that made a woman “beautiful.”

I wasn’t interested in wearing makeup. I refused to use the fragrant lotions and soap my mom and sister bought from Bed, Bath and Beyond. I put down girls who wore fancy jewelry. I prided myself on not wearing earrings as a way of asserting my masculinity. I was not interested in becoming a woman. I was not interested in being beautiful. Yet when sketchy websites suggested yogurt as a possibility for lightening skin, I seriously considered going to the store and spending money to buy yogurt. I was coming up with scenarios in my head on how to hide the yogurt in the fridge so no one in my family would eat it. I was thinking about how I was going to use money from my part-time job—that way I didn’t have to ask my mom for cash.

This is all evidence of how I, an already light-skinned Filipino, socialized as a woman although aspiring for masculinity, internalized and enacted colorism through skin products that I refused to put on my body for womanhood, but was willing to use in pursuit of whiteness.

Recording artist and producer J. Cole said it best when he commented, “As a man I don’t have to do anything. I can throw on a t-shirt and some pants. I still have pressure… but nothing compared to what a woman has to go through.”

Growing up non-binary, I internalized toxic binary beauty standards: women spent a ridiculous amount of time to look beautiful; to be a man, you throw on t-shirt and pants, not having to worry about beauty. Men wore “simple clothes” and could walk out the door. In other words, I was navigating

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how to be masculine and apathetic, but was simultaneously concerned with how I presented myself to the world. Around this age I would throw on the plain black jacket from Walmart I bought from my friend four out of five days of the week. I wore the same Vans every single day for my entire freshman year of high school. Wearing the same outfit every day was asserting toxic masculine apathy. This, together with colorism, stresses the pressure on adolescents to be beautiful in order to be desirable and deserving in this world.

I am not just navigating colorism, gender, and beauty as a non-binary person. Beauty operates off of gender and race, but also off of low income immigrant communities.

I spent my money on clothes, brands and aesthetics, but lived in section 8 housing, ate Hot Pockets and kimchi ramen bowls for meals, and had no goals for college. Beauty is not a “distraction” for poor people from understanding their material conditions—particularly for those who are dark skinned, or whose first language isn’t English, or who deviate from cis-heteronormativity. Rather, beauty is an order of capitalism that decides how we are perceived and treated: who gets access to resources versus who’s on the backlist; whose neighborhoods have sidewalks and whose don’t; who is safe at work versus who’s going to get assaulted; who is going to be assisted at the store versus who’s going to be followed.

“

[G]lobal systems of oppression, such as imperialism... not only force people of color from their homelands, but offer the promise of achieving wealth and security through beauty as an exchange for people’s liberation.

I was more concerned about the color of my skin and looking masculine than I was about my mom having to work three jobs, or my dad not being able to provide child support because Hawaii’s living costs were cruel to old, immigrant, disabled fathers. I, as a low income, non-binary kid from an immigrant family, prioritized beauty over the rights to affordable housing, food, and education. As long I looked naturally beautiful, I was willing to risk the burning of citrus on my skin if I forgot to wash my arms the next morning and exposed them to the sun. As long as my skin was lighter, people liked me. As long as my skin was lighter, my prospects of higher education and middle class income were that much higher.

We must ensure, however we embody, enact, or enable beauty, that it does not rely on the colonial mentality of privileging light skin, and that it does not perpetuate the capitalist mentality of obtaining economic security through aesthetic conformity. Beauty without genuine security is a disservice to poor, gender non-conforming people of color in America who can’t afford trendy aesthetics. From housing and education to the ability to speak our mother tongues, oppressed people shouldn’t have to conform to colonial and capitalist ideas of beauty to prove their self worth. Prioritizing beauty and aesthetics actually counters third world revolutionary movements who organize to end global systems of oppression, such as imperialism, that not only force people of color from their homelands, but offer the promise of achieving wealth and security through beauty as an exchange for people’s liberation.

As a non-binary Filipino organizer with Anakbayan Portland, I understand that it is only by organizing to end imperialism that the people, trans or cis, poor or well off, can live without their dignity being threatened by colonial aesthetics and capitalist motives.

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wccls.org/e-books AUGUST/SEPTEMBER 2017 6 • JANUARY/FEBRUARY

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VOICES

Always have supported LGBT rights, Always will.

Resistance in the Western Gaze

By Anna Zheng

FEATURES

I am a complicated world, filled with intricacies that are denied by the Western gaze. I am a queer femme with androgynous tendencies. First generation ChineseAmerican, I grew up in Kansas. Shifting between Cantonese and English, I rooted myself in the Pacific Northwest for college. I learned the intricacies of exotification and Chinese femininity before I could speak. Mama tells me she used to force me into dresses. As an infant, I’d throw tantrums and rip them off. Three years later, the world conditioned me to love dresses. In fifth grade, I wear capris and sit with my legs spread out. A girl in my class points at my crotch and tells me that “it” looks fat. She says that I sit like a man.

This is the first time I am fat-shamed, and to this day, I still think of this when I undress myself in front of lovers.

Racial and sexual injustices plague the liberal cities. I am 21 in Capitol Hill, Seattle.

My naivety thought that Seattle would embrace my newfound liberal identity. Walking out of a gas station with a new pack of cigarettes, I tear the plastic film and light one. A man stops, looks me up and down, and gasps, “I’d make love to you. Damn, you fine.”

I shoot him a dirty look because mama told me to never fight in public because “nice ladies” don’t fight. Ladies submit and are soft like rose petals. He rushes off and whispers an apology, but the harm is already done. I wade through a thick river of anger for the rest of the day and wonder if I’ll be prone to feeling this way for the rest of my life.

In Portland, I interact with white queers; I wonder if they shed tears in the arms of women of color, if they’re aware that tears they shed exhaust our bodies. I wonder: if they talk to me because I’m an exotic enigma with purple hair, if they see me as a human with dreams, if they’re thinking about what I could do in between the sheets instead of what I can do to change communities. When I tell them I’m a Gender Studies major, they ramble about womxn’s rights and politics. I wonder if they understand that theorizing is only a circle-jerk in cloud space of an empire that only a few can visit. I wonder if they know that name-dropping Judith Butler or Michel Foucault only masks as pretentiousness. I wonder if they understand that womxn of color are disenfranchised in real life and not just in textbooks. I fear people who wear liberal goggles and blind themselves from the lived experiences of people of color. Like a T-bone accident, a jumble of thoughts about exotification, racialization and sexualization collide in my head. Whiplashed, I choke and don’t bother talking to them. Walking down streets in Portland, paranoia bursts through my pores as people stare longingly at my legs, lanky body, yellow skin and almond eyes.

Shifting my eyes from one corner to the next, I hope today will not be the day I have to use pepper spray or dial 911.

At Portland Pride, I meet a gay Japanese man. He tells me about coming out to his ex-wife and kids. I tell him about the Midwest. I want to hug him for being at Pride, coming up to me and being so friendly. “You are brave,” he repeats. A month later, I know what he means: I had the courage to come out to my traditional Chinese family in Kansas.

I walk down the streets and people assume my racial identity and can ask pseudoliberal questions, like, “no, where are you actually from?” It takes energy to be outwardly queer and Chinese in a white space that tells me to be complacent and silent. Doing social justice work can destroy the tenderness of my soul. Determined to make the world just, I constantly find myself performing and placating to what white folks want out of me instead of being who I truly want to be. I have felt myself grow cold and guarded in Portland, more so than I have in any other place I’ve travelled. I’ve walked down many streets in the past month and have yet to see someone else who looks like me. I am brave.

I am a complicated world filled with intricacies that are denied by the chains of the Western gaze. My resistance came from profound self-love and love for others. I used to cry myself asleep, burying the anger inside of me instead of releasing that energy into the world. Feeling unsafe and anxious in the streets of the PNW is normalized; I’ve felt silenced and belittled many times. I don’t want to go back into the closet in Kansas, but the PNW isn’t a paradise either. So don’t tell me that being here is better than Kansas.

At least people in Kansas don’t hide behind liberal goggles.

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THEMUTTLEYCREW.COM AUGUST/SEPTEMBER 2017 • 7 JANUARY/FEBRUARY

CALENDAR

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Trans & Intersex Social

Save DACA PDX Rally!

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Join RASH NW and the Red and Black Subculture Club to watch the masterful documentary by Stanley Nelson, an essential history and a vibrant chronicle of this pivotal movement that birthed a new revolutionary culture in America. Afterwards DJ Dispissed and Soul Survivor will play the best of boss reggae, soul, political hip-hop and antifascist oi! Friday, September 1, 7:30 pm at Gil’s Speakeasy, 609 ½ SE Taylor St, Portland. Free admission, venue is 21+ only. More info at http:// bit.ly/2vcuLFJ.

more. Thursday, September 7, 11 am–2 pm at Pioneer Courthouse Square, 701 SW 6th Ave, Portland. Free admission, all ages welcome. More info at http://bit. ly/1hVDANp.

Bring your friends and make some new ones at this trans and intersex social event (everyone welcomed LGBTQIA+). Enjoy free happy hour 5–7 pm, followed by confidence building and singles dating fun including games and door prizes 7–9 pm. Then pizza, drinks, dancing and karaoke late into the night! Tuesday, August 29, 5 pm–2 am at The 1905, 830 N Shaver St, Portland. Tickets $3 in advance at http://bit. ly/2wYAIIl, $5 at the door.

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COMMUNITY EVENTS

Shut Down White Supremacy – Solidarity with Charlottesville

Insights from the Outside

Insights from the Outside: Envisioning a More Just Neighborhood for Everyone. This neighborhood event will begin with a panel of people experiencing houselessness who will discuss experiences. Everyone is invited to make art to envision how our neighborhoods can better serve everyone, including houseless neighbors. Food provided. Monday, August 28, 6–8 pm at Jade/APANO Multicultural Space – JAMS, 8114 SE Division St, Portland. Free admission, all ages event. More info at http://bit.ly/2wYsi3z.

Transgender Justice 101 Training

Learn more about transgender issues and how you can help advance transgender equality in your own community. This free training is perfect for anyone in Portland who wants to learn how to become a more effective transgender ally, from concerned individuals and nonprofit employees to affirming churches and other groups. Tuesday, August 29, 6:30–8:30 pm at Ainsworth United Church of Christ, 2941 NE Ainsworth St, Portland. Free registration at http:// bit.ly/2wkzolX. More info at http://bit.ly/2wkAvSz.

Stories & Food: Fundraiser for Tender Table

Join us for an evening of music, stories, and food to raise funds for the 2018 programming of Tender Table, a storytelling platform featuring women of color and gender nonconforming people of color and their stories about food, family, and identity. Tuesday, September 5, 7–11 pm at Holocene, 1001 SE Morrison St, Portland.

Tickets $10 at http://ticketf.ly/2hXE4rp. 21+ only.

More info at http://bit.ly/2vcIkVo.

AUGUST/SEPTEMBER 2017 8 • JANUARY/FEBRUARY

Joey Gibson (Patriot Prayer) has made many events in the Portland area in the name of “free speech,” and many neo-Nazis and white nationalists attend his rallies.

Now Gibson has invited neo-Nazis and KKK members from Charlottesville to his “Portland freedom march – southern edition.” We will not tolerate neo-Nazis in our city. We need EVERYONE who stands against nazism to #defendpdx. Sunday, September 10, 12 pm at Pioneer Courthouse Square, 701 SW 6th Ave, Portland. More info at http://bit.ly/2vQJ9VU.

Incite: Queer Writers Read

Come listen to Qwo-Li Driskell, Vinnie Kinsella, Stephanie Adams-Santos and Ashley Brittner-Wells as they read on the subject of abundance (or the lack thereof). Join the community discussion afterwards. Come early to grab a seat and complimentary hors d’oeuvres and fizzy water.

Wednesday, September 6, 7–8:30 pm at Literary Arts, 925 SW Washington St, Portland. Learn more at www.facebook.com/QueerWriters.

2017 Portland Volunteer Expo The Black Panthers: The Vanguard Of The Revolution (With DJs after)

Right wing state politicians have given the Trump Administration until September 5 to end the DACA program. Join Milenio.org as we rally outside the Federal Building in downtown Portland. We need everyone to stand together to protect and defend our dreamers!

Tuesday, September 5, 5 pm at Terry Schrunk Plaza, 431 SW Madison St, Portland. More info at http://bit. ly/2vOxwR6.

The Standard’s Volunteer Expo is a free event that brings more than 125 nonprofits together in one place, helping Oregonians discover volunteer and donation opportunities that fit their skills and interests.

Participating organizations represent the arts, culture, the environment, animal welfare, human services and

Knock Out: Plus Size Pop-Up and Fashion Show

Knock Out is a fashion and shopping event for all our body positive feminine warriors, dapper darlings and handsome fellows. Come see some of the latest fashions from your favorite plus size designers, and hear from amazing powerhouse blogger and influencer Anna OBrien as our keynote speaker. Sunday, September 24, 11 am–3 pm at Wonder Ballroom 128 NE Russell St, Portland. Tickets $15–20 at http://ticketf.ly/2iee3UT. More info at http://bit.ly/2fTSR5X. pqmonthly.com PQMONTHLY.COM

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3 GOOD TIMES

VOICES

Minority Retort at The Siren Theater

New hosts! New comedians! New venue! Popular favorites! Minority Retort, now hosted by Jason Lamb (XRAYFM), Julia Ramos (All Jane Comedy Festival) and Neeraj Srinivasan (Out of Bounds Comedy Fest), returns with a killer lineup featuring comedians Pedro Andrade, Chris Johnson, Marcus Coleman, headliner Debbie Wooten and a few surprises! Saturday, August 26, 8–10 pm at The Siren Theater, 315 NW Davis St, Portland. Tickets $10 in advance at http://bit.ly/2vLnOPb. All ages venue, wheelchair accessible.

BlowPony! 8.26.17 w/ TT The Artist & Freddy King Of Pants

HARD DISCO FOR HARD A$$ HOMO$! Featuring emerging female recording artist TT The Artist, and DJs Airick X, Just Dave, Aurora and guest DJ Freddy King of Pants. Gogos: Heatherette, Charley Sharp, Nikki Bunz, Miss Match Clash, Weil, Latoya and Johnny Cakes.

Cum spend a night of debauchery with us. Saturday, August 26, 9 pm–2 am at Bossanova Ballroom, 722 E Burnside St, Portland. $9 admission at the door, 21+ only. More info at http://bit.ly/2x1LugS.

Lez Splash Summer Finale

Back by popular demand, your favorite river bash and queer hangout for all people who identify as queer womxn—no transphobia or bigotry allowed.

Pack a cooler and bring a blanket. The unofficial queer area is at the very end of the clothing optional beach. We will have a pop up tent with rainbow balloons. Sunday, August 27, 12–6 pm at Collins Beach (Sauvie Island), 38151 NW Reeder Rd, Portland. Free, all ages. More info at http://bit.ly/2winRn7.

Showtunes Singalong

Musicals, showtunes, beloved movies—watch the videos played on our projection screen as we take a raucous romp through musical history! This month will be a fundraiser for the Russian LGBT Network, to help bring awareness to and provide assistance to the LGBT community in Chechnya. Intermission performance by the always fabulous Wolfgang X! Monday, August 28, 7–10 pm at Crush Bar, 1400 SE Morrison St, Portland.

Free admission, 21+ only. Happy hour all night. More info at http://bit.ly/2wshc98.

Last Wednesgays – August LGBTQ Plus Happy Hour

This monthly event has been created to introduce friendly local LGBTQ+ people with other friendly LGBTQ+ people.

The vibe is chill and friendly. Rontoms is a hip bar with a patio and ping-pong. Bring a friend and make a new one! The more the merrier! Wednesday, August 30, 6–9 pm at Rontoms, 600 E Burnside St, Portland. Free admission, 21+ only.

Lez Stand Up: Not Tired of Winning Yet

Y’all voted us into history, winning Willamette Week’s Best of Portland “Best Comedy Show” for the second year in a row, and our very own Caitlin Weierhauser was crowned King in Helium’s Portland’s Funniest Person contest! We’re taking all those good vibes and bringing them back to YOU for this amazing September show!

Friday, September 1, 7 pm at The Siren Theater, 315 NW Davis St, Portland. Tickets $10 in advance at pqmonthly.com PQMONTHLY.COM

http://bit.ly/2vLmPP7. All ages venue, wheelchair accessible.

Death Of Glitter: Queen of the Fairies!

NJoin the cast of Death of Glitter: Genderf#ck Cabaret for a Cause and dance the night away! Performances by: Anastasia Euthanasia, Marla Darling, Darcy Blows, Miss Pamela Voorhees, Prince Peanut-Butter, Mars, BeElzzaBub Doll, the Glam King, Clare, Apparently!, Athena, Carina Borealis, Peter Pantyhose, and more!

Saturday, September 2, 9 pm–1 am at Paris Theatre, 6 SW Third Ave, Portland. Admission $7–10 sliding scale, $5 after 11 pm for dance night only, no one turned away for lack of funds. 21+ only. More info at http://bit.ly/2fVFd2c.

Movie Night: “But I’m a Cheerleader”

She excels in school and cheerleading, and she has a handsome football-playing boyfriend, so she’s stunned when her parents decide she’s gay and send her to a boot camp to alter her sexual orientation. Natasha Lyonne (Orange is the New Black) and RuPaul (RuPaul’s Drag Race) star in the campy hit from 1999. Monday, September 11, 7:30–10 pm at Portland Center Stage at The Armory, 128 NW 11th Ave, Portland. Free admission, movie runs 85 minutes, rated R. More info at http://bit.ly/2vONlXN.

Check It

CHECK IT is a feature-length documentary about a black gay gang struggling to survive in one of Washington D.C.’s most violent neighborhoods. At first glance, they seem unlikely gang-bangers. They carry Louis Vuitton bags, but they also carry knives, brass knuckles and mace.

All event proceeds benefit the Trans Assistance Project and ORI Gallery. Wednesday, September 13, 7:30–9:30 pm at The Hollywood Theatre, 4122 NE Sandy Blvd, Portland. Tickets $7–9 at hollywoodtheatre.org/ booking/tickets/1-307754.

Monthlies and Weeklies

Bi, pan, fluid, and queer folks are welcome to come to the monthly Bi Bar event every second Tuesday at Crush Bar. Second Tuesdays, 8–11:30 pm at Crush Bar, 1400 SE Morrison St., Portland. No cover.

Dykes on Bikes Bingo Fundraiser

First card free, $3 cards after. Happens the first Tuesday every month. First Tuesday, 6–8 pm at Crush Bar, 1400 SE Morrison St., Portland.

Last Wednesgays

Get through hump day with a bonus LGBTQ drink or two. This hip, rustic-industrial hangout offers a patio, fireplaces, and ping-pong. Last Wednesdays, 6–9 pm at Century, 930 SE Sandy Blvd, Portland. Free admission, 21+ only.

Amateur Night

Amateur night in the main bar hosted by the gorgeous Godiva DeVyne. Interested dancers should arrive by 8:45 p.m. Wednesdays at Stag PDX, 317 NW Broadway, Portland. Free, 21+ only.

Throwback Thursdays

Throwback Thursday hosted by the always fashionable Drexler. The house DJ spins the best pop, hip hop, and R&B hits of the 80s, 90s, and 00s. Thursdays at Stag PDX, 317 NW Broadway, Portland. Free admission, 21+ only.

Burlesque S’il Vous Plait

Enjoy a classic burlesque show with a contemporary variety twist every first Friday. First Fridays, 9 pm at Crush Bar, 1400 SE Morrison St., Portland. Doors at 8:30 pm. Admission $12–18.

Bronco Night at Stag

Every first Saturday is Bronco, a sexy men’s night in Portland and across the U.S. at men’s clubs. Enjoy beefy bearded dancers, great tunes, photo booths, and sexy visuals! First Saturdays, 9 pm–2 am at Stag PDX, 317 NW Broadway, Portland. $6 before 10 pm, $10 after; doors at 9 pm. 21+ only.

Pants Off Dance Off Gay Skate

Come join PQ Monthly for our monthly Gay Skate night.

Gay skate happens the 3rd Monday of every month.

Third Mondays, 7–9 pm at Oaks Amusement Park, 7805 SE Oaks Pkwy, Portland.

Legendary Mondays

Every Monday, Bart Fitzgerald curates one of the most refreshing events of the week. If you make it through a Monday, you deserve to attend. Music by Dubblife.

Mondays, 9 pm–2 am at Swift Lounge, 1932 NE Broadway St. Portland. Free and open to the public, 21+ only.

Body positive, bare-as-you-dare dance party that happens every first Saturday of the month. First Saturdays, 9 pm at Crush Bar, 1400 SE Morrison St., Portland. $7 cover, clothes check included.

Testify Brunch

Testify Brunch hosted by the fabulous Alexis Campbell Starr. Show starts at 12:30 pm. Sundays, 11 am–3 pm at Stag PDX, 317 NW Broadway, Portland. Free admission.

CALENDAR SPONSORED BY

Stag Karaoke Mondays

Weekly karaoke night for the queer community.

Mondays at Stag PDX, 317 NW Broadway, Portland.

Free, 21+ only.

Bi Bar

Have an event you want considered? Submit your events at calendar@pqmonthly.com.

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VOICES

Queer and Swarthy in Portland

By Dakky Comics

I first moved to Portland Christmas of 2015. Don’t get me wrong, I was born here, and my family is based here, but I’ve never really lived here. I moved young and grew up in Washington, traveled around in California, then came back here to be with family. So while I’m an Oregonian, Oregon is brand new to me. When you live on the west coast you frequently hear of Portland. How weird it is. The food. How everyone has dyed hair. The hipsters. The zines. The art scene.

The microbrews. The hiking. The street art. The comics. The tech scene. The body hair. And how safe Portland is for queer people. People come here from all around the US to transition or be gendered correctly on a more consistent basis; Portland probably has the largest Pride Parade in the Northwest, and homoromantics hold hands all throughout this city. There are meetups, support groups, programs for queer youth, acceptance.

“

Nothing prepared me for the realization that just because you’re down with the queer community does not automatically mean that you are down for people of color.

Here I think Portland is just an accepting place, according to hearsay. Then I get here. I’ve gotten my fair share of cultural whiplash during my travels, but nothing prepared me for the realization that just because you’re down with the queer community does not automatically mean that you are down for people of color. I used to think that either you were down with the liberal agenda or you weren’t. I thought that we were all behind the “nobody’s free until we’re all free” mentality; that we were all down with liberation of queer people, people of color, freedom of religion—I thought we all had a similar mindset and sensibilities, but no. There are plenty of racists, both queer and straight, in Portland. This changed my parallel roads into a crossroads. Here we’ve got plenty of queer allies, but racial allies are hard to find. Xenophobia, racism, and tonedeafness run rampant here. I’m getting tired of “It’s Portland” and “Welcome to Portland” as an excuse for this state of things.

“

when the ratio starts to become equal or starts tipping in the favor of PoC. I always notice. It’s like a rush of electricity when you’re finally in a space—even for a moment—where you’re finally not the minority for a little while.

I ended up the only person of color (and one of three women) in a bar full of twenty people the other day. When that happens I take a moment to look for signs of trouble, specifically the white supremacist brand of trouble. I check skin for European Kindred Shields (Russel Courtier, who killed a black teen by running him over in his truck in Troutdale, a few blocks from my home, was an EK gang member); 14s, 88s, or 1488 supremacist numeric code; Nordic rune tattoos or mjølnir weapon jewelry (The Local Hammerskins); swastikas; 3 Percenter line and star tattoos; KKK insignia; white power handsigns (I’m livid that they’re trying to turn the OK symbol into a white power symbol. Seriously, screw off); confederate flags; or American flags being flown like “xenophobic and proud of it” flags. It is crazy how many ways there are to be under-the-radar racist. It’s crazy that white folks have so many

Being black, it’s...a stressful experience preparing for a job interview. Trying to fashion your hair in what you think might be seen as the most professional way, knowing your interviewer is probably a Portlander without much experience with PoC or their professionalism culture.

I find myself aggressively befriending people of color, and then once I have them, I keep them close. I joined Black Lives Matter just to be around people of color at least once a week so I could breathe. Are PoC moving away? I wouldn’t be surprised. Many everyday conversational interactions are about defending my friends and me, explaining why my experiences and anger are valid to white people who ask me to explain. You can only take so much explaining yourself before you start to immediately resent interactions that start heading to the “please explain why you’re valid” realm of conversation.

When I leave my house, I constantly pay attention to the race ratios around me. At any given time I can recite the ratio of white to non white people in the area, and color me excited

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hate groups. Really, we get it. How many do you need? It’s also crazy that hardly any of these groups are listed as gangs in the police database. White supremacists have killed and harassed plenty of good people, especially as of late, and only person of color groups are seen as gangs worth pursuing by the police.

According to police data reported in The Oregonian, 18% of the PPD’s gang list are white and 64% are black, even though only 8% of Portland’s population is black. Because double standards. The story of our lives.

I’ve also had a hard time with finding work in Portland.

Being black, it’s already a stressful experience preparing for a job interview. Trying to fashion your hair in what you think might be seen as the most professional way, knowing your

interviewer is probably a Portlander without much experience with PoC or their professionalism culture. Most people of color worry about having to deal with job transitions and instability because of misinformed people thinking that dreads are dirty, that afros are militant, that bantu knots or afro puffs or braids are less professional than any way hair would grow out of a white scalp. Not even getting a call back in the first place

because your government name isn’t european. Then there’s the matter of keeping your job, working with white people who are most likely unused to working with people of color—especially since in Oregon you can legally be fired without cause. I actually got an email from an employer telling me not to come back to work after one week because I “didn’t fit in with the culture of the atmosphere.” Yes friends, that happened. Not because of anything I did or said in particular.

You can actually be fired for being different—and by being a person of color in Portland you are very different than the norm.

I work in childcare. Children are my life. I sometimes saw teachers become less patient with children of color at my older jobs. I call people on it when I can, and I show children of color saintly patience. They’re more likely to face toxic masculinity at a young age, more likely to be told not to cry, to be told to curb enthusiasm, to be seen as aggressive or as a threat—partially because a lot of black youth end up growing taller faster at young ages, and can be heads taller than other children their age. I can’t help but wonder if white-run daycares can foster racial empowerment and self love in young children of color, or at least treat children with the same amount of patience.

Because of the color of their skin, children of color are born into worlds of hardship—the school to prison pipeline, white supremacy, police brutality, a eurocentric school education system that doesn’t validate them or let them know that their ancestors mattered beyond slavery and the civil rights movement. I look at the bright smiling faces of these young black children and think, “I’m so sorry that you have a 1 in 3 chance of going to jail. I’m so sorry that you’re going to be racially profiled by aggressive cops. I’m so sorry that society is like this. I can at least give you all the hugs you want and march in the streets with signs and call my representatives in Oregon so you don’t end up a statistic. I’ll do what I can, little guy.”

Twitter: @dakkycomics

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VOICES

6 Self Care Resources for QPOC

By Cambria Herrera

Self care is the first line of protest. Systemic oppression is nothing new to queer people of color, but under the current political climate and after recent hate crimes in Oregon, my acts of protest have become more necessary and urgent to me than ever.

Self care is a relatively new concept for me. In my xicanx household, I was taught to honor God first, take care of family second—and taking care of myself was an unapproached subject. In college, I finally faced my conditioned fears of stigma and went to a doctor for my anxiety disorder. I was prescribed Lexapro and therapy. I thought that would fix me, but three years, thousands of milligrams of Lexapro or Zoloft, and hundreds of fruitless therapy sessions later, I realized that western medicine had failed me, and I started my quest for self care resources. I was able to leave a job that was toxic to my mental health and began to focus full-time on healing. Below are six of my favorite, recently discovered, resources.

1. YogaGreenBook.com This website provides yoga and meditation classes exclusively lead by female- or femme-identifying people of color. The “About” section of their website states, “Yoga is ultimately a personal journey, but it’s easier to get started in a space you feel safe with culturally-affirming teachers and resources. Yoga Green Book provides the space and resources.” I’ve found Yoga Green Book to be a life-giving safe space to begin my journey to physical health. Monthly membership costs $19, which can be canceled at any time, and there is a 30-day free trial to decide if it’s a good fit for you.

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2. Nalgona Positivity Pride This xicana/brown/indigenous body-positive community based in Long Beach, California has been the breath of fresh air I needed in my social media timelines. 10 out of 10, I recommend following them on Instagram and Facebook to provide beautiful relief from the pictures that plant seeds of self doubt. Their mission is to uplift every body type, especially the brown and indigenous.

3. A library card I never would have guessed it, but getting my first library card since childhood gave me a feeling of empowerment unlike anything else. I recommend giving yourself an hour to get to know your local library and get your own library card (free with proof of residence in the county). Or check out the library at In Other Words, Feminist Bookstore and Community Center on NE Killingsworth. Their library includes sections specific to feminist theory, health, LGBTQ issues, and many other relevant subjects. Added bonus: their staff are working to post specific trigger warnings on any of their books containing transphobic or homophobic language, especially on their older inventory.

4. Decolonize Your Diet: Plant-Based Mexican-American Recipes for Health and Healing by Luz María Calvo, Catriona Rueda Esquibel

and gentrification now, the diet of PoC in the United States is often vastly different than that of our ancestors. I encourage researching diets native to you or your ancestors’ region(s) of origin to explore how you can decolonize your diet.

5. Portland’s swimming holes Perhaps Oregon’s most redeeming characteristic is that after months of perpetual winter, glorious summers always return.

And with easily-searchable-online river banks, swimming holes, and hikes to waterfalls within Multnomah County and just beyond, there are plenty of opportunities to treat yourself to some free tlc in the water and sun.

6. An intersectional queer community Some local organized communities include PDX Latinx Pride, PDX Brown Brunches, Pochas Radicales, and Sankofa Collective Northwest. But your community doesn’t have to be an organized group or event. As long as there are at least two like minded folx intentionally together for self-care with intersectionality in mind, you have your community!

Be well on your self care journey. May it be restful, rejuvenating, and restorative.

This book was my starting point to researching what my body needs as a native to North America. Between colonization then

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Li Ha It’s my connection to my ancestors, the people who share my blood. I draw my strength from them.

Sea

Virginia

It means beauty and creativity and power. When I think of my melanin, I think of how I can show up in the world and how I can force visibility, because there is such a lack.

It depends on the context.

When I grew up overseas on Guam, as someone who is biracial but was always around people of color, I didn’t think about it until we would visit my mother’s family who hadn’t seen me in a while, and they wouldn’t recognize me as family. They were usually like, who’s this white girl?

But here in the States, looking at me, most people would never say that. I feel like here in America, I’m always treated as a notwhite person.

Manumalo Stephanie It means a connection to magic and a connection to the earth; a connection to ways of knowing that are devalued and overlooked in our society.

My melanin means my cultural identity—I am Samoan-American; I am a Pacific Islander. My melanin is thinking of my culture—how I was raised, where I grew up—and identifying with other folks here in Portland that have developed a culture around their melanin.

Josh To me, it means being sort of the underdog, and feeling a heightened sense of community and unity in that experience.

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Andrew Tua It means a lot to me; it’s who I am as a person. It gives me a lot of character. I love my color; it’s very vibrant but dark—I get really dark during the summertime, which I love. I just love my color.

Cynthia

Elliot

I’m proud of who I am, and as an African-American woman, as a lesbian, as a wife, it’s like: we’re here, we’re in this world—you need to be over it! Enjoy the benefit of what my community brings to the world.

I never thought about my melanin until I moved to Portland, because I grew up in a super diverse city.

It’s a part of myself that I never actually looked at, because it’s always just been...normal. And now here it feels like it’s not, and I feel out of place. It’s interesting to be over thirty and just now realizing that I am a person of color, and trying to figure out how that fits into my life at this stage.

Blanca Humberto It’s my history. My melanin represents my ancestors, my family and my lineage.

It’s a mark—it can be a mark of inclusion or a mark of exclusion depending on the space. My family are all from Mexico, but on my mom’s side they’re really light-skinned, so I’ve always been the darkest one on that side. They call me prieta, which is meant as an affectionate term, but it’s still a mark.

David It means connection to my past—to my family, my ancestors, those who paved the way. It’s my pride. It’s what makes me David; it’s what makes me strong and resilient.

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Paula My melanin means my heritage. I am first generation; my parents were born in Mexico City, and my grandparents were born in Oaxaca, so naturally our people are very dark.

I am super super happy and comfortable in my skin because I feel like it carries that ancestry in me; it makes me feel powerful and strong.

Cyrus It’s a reminder of my roots; the cultural and ethnic backgrounds that make up me and my family. It reminds me of who I am.

Brian It’s a constant struggle. It’s frustrating to deal with white people all the time, so it’s learning patience; it’s resistance and resilience.

Rochelle To me, it means power and it means pain. It makes me feel unique and strong, but at the same time it reminds me of obstacles and challenges; the conflict comes in trying to make those things exist at the same time, in trying to exist as somebody who is powerful and in pain. It’s hard, but beautiful.

Also Pictured: Zakai

Kimo My melanin, to me, is husked coconut baking under the sun. It means resilience. It means family; connection. And delicious chocolate. beautiful.

Also Pictured: Olga

Yuriko I think it’s complicated, especially for a Mestiza.

I never felt like I had a positive relationship with my melanin, but the more I learn about racial identity, the less I feel bothered about any of that, aside from being sensitive to the fact that I carry some extra privilege because I am light.

Because being racialized, you don’t do it—other people do it to you.

What does your melanin mean to you?

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PROUD QUEER facebook.com/pqmonthly

EVERY LETTER, EVERY COLOR, EVERYWHERE

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An Interview with Local Toymaker Cynthia Gerriets

By Luis Silva

When someone says the word “artist,” Cynthia Gerriets is one of the people who immediately leaps to my mind. Her artistic career is long and varied, having ranged from clothes and costume design to, currently, toymaking. She’s recently moved to Portland and has opened an internet shop called Ten Times a Tiger in which she sells her many creations.

After arriving at her home, the first thing I noticed about Cynthia Gerriets house was the paint-stained table that she told me was where she sets her projects to dry. Going past this table and through the front door I then observed a small studio filled with a vast amount of collectibles and sculptures ranging from pops of comic book characters to one of my personal favorites: a plushie of Marvel’s Black Panther. Everything, down to the posters on the wall, was a reflection of her artistic style. As we sat down on her couch to begin the interview, we were truly surrounded by the art that has influenced her work.

What can you tell us about yourself?

I am a toy designer. I sculpt and do resin casting and painting and all that. I’ve created a bunch of critters that way.

What is the inspiration behind your title for your business, Ten Times a Tiger?

It actually came from my favorite comic book, King City by Brandon Graham. I get a lot of my inspiration from his stuff.

He’s just amazing. He has a lot of puns and a lot of silly stuff that he’ll have in his comics, and there’s one panel where, on a popsicle stick, there was a riddle that said Ten Times the Tiger on it. I was like, “Hey, that’s really clever, it sounds cool.” It was a title that always stuck with me.

When did you first start making toys?

I’ve always wanted to make toys! Ever since I was in high school and first discovered designer toys, and realized that that was an actual art medium. Like, “Hey, I could actually do art and do toys!” I started sculpting right after high school.

In Tucson, they didn’t really have school for toy design, but I took sculpting classes. I think because I was a young artist, I was really intimidated by it and got discouraged, because there wasn’t really a toy scene in Tucson. That was until two years ago after I got my gallbladder removed and had surgery, and I was sitting at home. I couldn’t do anything and I finally was like, “Why am I not making toys? I’m going to make toys.” At the time, I was doing a Batman art show at the comic book store I worked at.

That was when you made the Bat Cow? Yes. I was like, “I don’t really want to do fashion anymore, I don’t want to do a cosplay, I don’t want to do any of that. You know what, I should sculpt something. I should make a toy. I should do some resin casting of some Bat Cows.” I decided to do this little character, Bat Cow. From there, I just kept doing it and I loved it.

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For those not in the know, what’s Bat Cow’s story?

I was working at Heroes and Villains at the time, a comic book store. I was doing their marketing. I decided to put together this Batman art show for Batman day. Bat Cow is actually a Batman character. You know Damian Robin, Batman’s son, it’s like his sidekick. Damian saves him from a slaughterhouse, and he’s a cow that has this Batman mask going across it’s face. It’s super adorable and really cute. At that time too, since I was having all these stomach problems, I decided to become vegetarian. Damien also decides to become vegetarian because he saved this animal and he has his animal sidekick. I was like, “It’s perfect. I’m going to make Bat Cows for Batman day.” That’s Bat Cow. What has inspired your work?

Inspiration can come from anywhere…because I have influences and different styles that come from everywhere.

I even have a few other things coming up that are inspired

by Star Wars.

I take inspiration from everywhere. But specifically, for A Land of Ten, my original work, there is some influence from The NeverEnding Story, Where the Wild Things Are, and mythology.

What can you tell us about A Land of Ten? A Land of Ten is a world that I built. This is a thing I like a lot about toy design, and why I like it as an art medium or even a storytelling medium: you don’t need to have a book to walk you through what the story is and what each character it is.

You have this tangible thing in your hand and it’s what we did when we were kids—we had toys and we would make up stories. We kind of just got what it was about. We would make up our own stories or we would go off of that. It’s kind of the same with Land of Ten. There’s the two Sphynx; those are the rulers. They both are twins. There’s Orion; he’s my favorite out of all them. Then there’s Tinsby. Tinsby is almost like a Two-Face type character. He has almost a Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde thing going on. They rule over Land of Ten. It’s this world of harmony. There are all these interesting weird characters. Like I have the bunnies—the Junos—and those play off being the night sky. They look like these little alien bunnies and they

hang out in the clouds. Then there’s the Kaiser cat, that’s like this alley king. He wants to be the ruler of Land of Ten but he’s really not, he’s just a brat! I have the Foxy and Wolf boys—those are the woodland creatures. Croc Rev Dead is probably...god, I want to say he’s my favorite too! I just love them all! Croc Rev Dead is so weird. He’s just like this weird swamp demon that’s inspired by Dr. Strange. Then there’s the Manticore. He has a very sad story. His story is he’s a protector of the Land of Ten. It’s a young world. The Manticore is like a baby, he’s really cutesy, almost like a puppy. But something happens to Land of Ten where another type of creature comes in and skews the world and it starts with the Manticore. That’s where I want the next toy design to go, is he’s going to be grown up. He’s going to be a big scary Manticore. I want to tell this story through these toys, this land. I want to keep continuing with Land of Ten and see how these characters change... Right now, I’d just like to get the story out there.

For those interested in A Land of Ten, how can they learn more about it?

You can find them online. They’ll be online on my website under tentimesatiger.bigcartel.com and www.facebook.com/ TenTimesaTiger!

Do you have any words of advice or encouragement for young Latinas who want to engage in a creative field or a creative career?

Man, just do it. It’s heavy, especially being a young Latina doing art. There’s a lot of conflicts that I’ve had with that because, of course, more than anything—whether it’s my race, my gender or my interests or whatever it is—I want to be looked at as an artist. I want to be looked at just purely for what I’m doing with my art. I don’t want it to be skewed at all. I am super proud of being Latina and what I do; I’m always going to represent that. Just don’t be discouraged by any of those things. I’ve had it happen before where people are like, “Oh, that’s great that you’re a Latina doing all this stuff,” and talk about me being that rather than about my art. That is frustrating for me because it’s like, yes, I know I’m Latina and I love who I am, but to me being an artist comes first and I want people to see that. Don’t get discouraged by that—it gets frustrating, I know. Keep going.

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COMMUNITY

In 1937, the Boy Scouts of America first opened the door for any sitting President of the United States to attend the jamboree. This year’s invitation may be one the Boy Scouts will regret. Since the President’s less than eloquent speech, parents and other concerned citizens have articulated their outrage at our President’s speech. Many have compared the President’s appearance at the jamboree to a Hitler Nazi Youth Rally.

This can’t be good news for an organization that continues to struggle with its own identity issues due to a history of discrimination against LGBTQ scouts and adults. In response to the numerous complaints, and even some accolades, the Chief Scout Executive Michael Surbaugh, issued his apologies to anyone who was offended by the President’s message. Closer to home, the Cascade Pacific Council Executive Scout Matt Devore, found himself in a similar situation when he too had to issue an apology for his initial response to the President Trump’s speech as a “teachable moment.”

“ A Role Model in Ignorance

By Judge Kemp

The Random House Dictionary defines a role model as a person whose behavior, example, or success is or can be emulated by others, especially by younger people. More than ever our youth need a leader to look up to. It’s often asked of children what they want to be when they grow up. The responses usually range from doctors, nurses, firefighters, veterinarians, to even the President of the United States; all admirable positions, with the latter garnering potential mass appeal, status, and even admiration. Though the position of President may be one to strive for, it’s the individual in that role who can inspire and embolden citizens to act.

President Trump’s speech at last month’s 20th National Boy Scout Jamboree personally angered me. Not just because of the continued political rhetoric he vomited throughout his dialogue about Secretary Hillary Clinton (a woman) and former President Obama (a man of color), but because of the bullying nature of his boasting. As our 45th President of the United States and honorary President of the Boy Scouts of America organization, this leader is supposed to be an example of integrity and humility for the thousands of star-struck scouts in attendance. But even before the Presidential elections of last year, this “businessman” would never be described as a positive role model, with his public admission of grabbing

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females by their genitals and other disparaging comments.

As an Eagle Scout and member of the National Eagle Scout Association, I live by the principles defined in the Scout Law. These laws, along with my mother and a cast of other positive adult role models, have helped shape me into the man I am today. The Boy Scout National Jamboree is supposed to be a place where scouts from all corners of the globe come together to learn new skills, experience new friendships, and have adventures a scout will always remember. Sadly, I never made it to a jamboree. My mother lacked the resources to send me and scholarships weren’t available at that time.

It’s upsetting that the leader of our country can’t seem to focus on a message that is strictly aimed at empowering youth to be good civic stewards, without the misogynistic and political jabs. Should we blame White House Communications for not previewing the text ahead of time, or is it simply that our Commander-in-Chief doesn’t seem to give a damn about the content of a message and can’t help grandstanding, regardless of the audience? Is this really the message we want our youth to digest? These are young and potentially vulnerable minds that don’t need to be given the impression, spoken or otherwise, that this Presidential behavior should be emulated and viewed as acceptable or tolerated.

It’s upsetting that the leader of our country can’t seem to focus on a message that is strictly aimed at empowering youth to be good civic stewards, without the misogynistic and political jabs.

No matter your opinion about the Boy Scouts of America or President Trump’s message, the responses from the scouting professionals and the general population shows real concern for the well-being of our youth and the influences presented to them. Honestly, I’ve been spoiled by the person who previously held the position in the White House for being a great orator (his wife too). He passionately believed in what he was saying and was able to address an audience to create a movement of progress. Maybe all of “this” is exactly that, a teachable moment, as Devore noted in his message; a conversation on what a role model looks like—and what a megalomaniac looks like.

This current administration also continues to erode and erase civic advances of LGBTQ people and further suppress our diverse communities. While we are all strongly encouraged to resist the further degradation of our queer community and people of color, the struggles continue with each new assault.

The messages our President continues to tout are very clear.

If you are a woman, you don’t know how to work hard. If your skin doesn’t look like his, you are a loser. Lastly, if you don’t do things his way, you’re fired or forced to resign. We don’t want our children to grow up feeling like they are less worthy of success based on their gender identity or the color of their skin. That’s not progress; that’s oppression.

Planting the seeds of ignorance as our President has done doesn’t necessarily guarantee a future of young AltRight thinkers, but it does raise questions about how people in power can assert negative influence. How the future plays out really depends on forward thinking communities collectively working together to force the current hand to change the narrative of ignorance. No one ever said life would be fair, but if we sit on our hands and do nothing, we are allowing the negative influences on our youth to take hold, and setting ourselves up for a future in which we continue to have to battle racism, bigotry, and hate.

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